


What You're Hiding in Your Hands

by mooniemurphy



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 22:32:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17031183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooniemurphy/pseuds/mooniemurphy
Summary: Summary: The day Connor takes Evan’s letter, he also leaves something behind, and that something might just be enough for Evan to save him.





	1. Is This Yours

“What happened to your arm?”

The world seems to slow for a moment with the voice that breaks into Evan’s concentration. Clumsy hands hasten to close the document still open with his letter on the computer, and he looks up to the person who’d spoken. Not that he needs to; everyone knows Connor Murphy’s voice in that same distinct way that they know the sound of gunshots and police sirens, things that indicate danger and emergency, and it’s all a pretty fair metaphor for Connor himself. Connor Murphy is a mysterious creature, and Evan knows he thinks that anytime Connor is within touching distance, but he can’t stop thinking it, because part of his mind wants to try to unravel the mystery. A much larger and more rational part of his brain knows to steer clear.

But Connor is standing in front of him, all dark clothes and long limbs and chipped nail polish, looking decidedly very nervous, an unusual and unfamiliar expression on him. It takes Evan a full three seconds to realize that Connor had asked him a question, and that questions warrant answers.

“I fell out of a tree, actually,” he blurts out before his mind can tell his mouth to shut up. Not that he’s sure his mouth would actually listen to his mind, because it never has before.

“You fell out of a tree?” Connor repeats. There’s amusement in his eyes, but it doesn’t seem cold or mocking. It just seems like it’s something he finds genuinely funny, and maybe a little pathetic. Evan supposes that it’s probably both. It’s nothing like the boy he’d been face to face with earlier in the day, when Connor had snapped and shoved him, and Evan hadn’t done anything in return. He wonders if this is a peace offering, an olive branch, so to speak, but then he thinks that that’s probably wishful thinking. “Well, that’s just the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard, oh my god,” Connor is continuing, and then he laughs.

It’s kind of quiet and nervous, but it’s a laugh, or as close to one as Connor probably ever gets, and, at his own expense, Evan finds himself sort of laughing, too. He prefers this Connor, with the hint of amusement and the little bit of light over the very angry and cold one that he’d seen before. “Yeah, I know,” Evan says, and maybe it eases something in Connor, because he takes a step forward. 

“No one’s signed your cast,” Connor prompts, the words a little sudden, a little jerky, and Evan feels nauseous. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from; he and Connor aren’t friends, but this is probably the most civil conversation that either of them manage to have ever, and he realizes that at least Connor is trying, so maybe he should, too. 

 

“No, I know,” he replies, looking down at the blank white canvas on his arm. It looks so empty.

“I’ll sign it,” Connor offers, sounding very firm and resolute. He’s resigned himself to it, Evan isn’t sure there’s room for argument, because Connor looks very determined. And Evan doesn’t want to look desperate, or pathetic, like he desperately needs Connor’s sympathy for how much of a loser he clearly is.

“No, it’s okay, you don’t have to…” he tries, pulling his arm a little closer to his chest. (Part of him knows that if he walks around the school with Connor Murphy’s name on his arm, he will lose any chance of anyone talking to him. Not that he had a whole lot of a chance, anyway, but Connor is sort of a big red flag, even if he means well. And Evan isn’t entirely sure that Connor does mean well.)

“Do you have a Sharpie?” Connor continues on like Evan hadn’t spoken, his voice sounding as if he’s talking to someone with multiple mental deficiencies. Evan blanches and then pales, and, without his permission, his hand reaches to pull the Sharpie from his pocket and hand it over.

Connor takes it, and then takes Evan’s arm, pulling it in a way that causes Evan to exhale a pained noise. Connor freezes, Sharpie in hand and an odd expression on his face as he scans Evan’s face quickly. Evan forces a smile, and, more hesitantly this time, Connor bends back over his arm. Evan watches as, letter by letter, Connor’s name suddenly fills the entire space on the outside of his cast. He’s torn between admiration, because Connor really just… went for it, and horror, because now it’s impossible to hide. It’s the middle of August, and it’s approximately 90 degrees outside everyday; he isn’t about to put on a hoodie to cover Connor’s name on his cast, no matter how much he might wish that he could.

“Oh, great, thanks,” Evan spits out in a rush of breath, staring down at the cast with the kind of paralyzed acceptance that people reserve for car crashes and natural disasters. 

“Yeah, well. Now we can both… pretend that we have friends,” Connor replies with a reserved casualness. He waves a hand dismissively, and Evan frowns. Of course, he’d already known that Connor didn’t have friends, and he knows that he doesn’t have friends, but that sort of response was the last thing that he’d ever expected from Connor. 

“Good point,” he mumbles, and pushes past Connor so he can leave the computer lab. He feels like he’s starting to suffocate.

“Is this yours?” Connor asks suddenly. It sounds like the way that Evan tends to blurt things out. Stunned, Evan turns to see what he means, and then his spirit plummets when he sees the piece of paper that can only be one thing. That damn letter that he shouldn’t have written. Why does Connor have it. “I found it on the printer. Dear Evan Hansen, that’s you, that’s your name, right?”

Evan blanches and reaches out automatically to take the piece of paper from his hand. “It’s just a stupid assignment that I have to write, so--”

“Because there’s Zoe?” Connor reads from the paper, and Evan feels his stomach turn. Oh, god, he’s going to throw up. “Wait. Is this about my sister?”

“No--” Evan tries, but Connor isn’t listening to him.

“You wrote this because you knew that I would find it,” Connor says, like it’s decided. His voice is a blank monotone. 

“No, why would I--”

“You saw that I was the only other person in the computer lab, and you wrote this, and you printed it out so that I would find it. So I would read some creepy shit you wrote about my sister and freak out, right? And then you could tell everyone that I’m crazy, right? Fuck you!” 

Evan tries to talk to him, tries to interrupt, cut him off, but Connor is louder, firmer, and more volatile than Evan could ever be, and it’s futile. And then Connor is pushing past him out of the room, too fast for Evan to follow. And he still has Evan’s letter clutched in his hand. He’s gone before Evan can react.

Evan goes to follow him-- he needs that letter back-- but almost trips over something in his path. That something turns out to be a faded black leather notebook with dog eared corners and pages torn out from the front. Letter momentarily forgotten, Evan opens the notebook. Written on the inside cover in bold black letters is “Connor Murphy”, and Evan wants to puke. For not the first time in the past twenty minutes. He should just shut it and try to find Connor, return it and get his letter back.

But something inside of him is curious, curious to know about the mysterious being known as Connor Murphy, and if Connor has that letter, the letter that displays more about him than anyone needs to know, then Evan wants to know something about Connor in return. And that’s how he justifies to himself as he starts to read.

 

_ August 22nd, 2018 _

_ I guess I should actually do this. I was supposed to be writing in this fucking journal all summer because Dr. Whatsherface said it would help me through my ‘mental turmoil’ or whatever the fuck shit she thinks I have. It’s bullshit, but it’s two am and I can’t sleep, so I might as well.  _

_ School starts tomorrow. Today, I guess? I don’t know, it’s after midnight, so I guess it’s today. I don’t want to go. I’ve never actually wanted to go to school, not since like, seventh grade? I think. Whatever. I’m supposed to be sleeping because I have to be up at six am so I don’t make Zoe late for whatever extracurricular shit she has going on, but Larry and Cynthia are screaming at each other downstairs like these walls aren’t made of paper. I can hear them. _

_ It’s about me, because when isn’t it. I think I heard dad say something about me bringing a gun to school and how everyone’s just waiting for it at this point, how it wouldn’t actually surprise anyone if I did. Or if I blew up the school. Actually, I don’t think I heard it, I know I heard it. Mom was going of about how I need help, how they should get me help, and dad said something about how I’m determined to be a fuck up, so getting me help would just be a waste of money. Good old dad. Of course, then mom started crying, and now it’s escalating. I think something got broken, I heard glass shattering. I don’t know, it’ll be cleaned up in the morning and they’ll both act like it didn’t happen. _

_ I should probably feel offended or something, but I’m so used to it. They keep saying stuff like this, thinking that I won’t hear it, and I hear it, and everything gets a little worse. For them, for me, for Zoe. I know that I’m fucked up. Zoe’s terrified of me. She acts like I’m going to kill her; I’ve never even touched her. And everytime mom looks at me, she just tears up and she tries so hard. Yeah, I get it, I’m making life a living hell for all of them.  _

_ Larry fucking hates me, and I guess the feeling is mostly mutual. But like, I don’t actually hate my dad. I don’t know, we just don’t see eye to eye most of the time. _

_ And Zoe. _

_ Zoe hates me, too, so I guess that makes three.  _

_ School will happen, and things will get progressively worse with every passing minute, and maybe this will finally be the year.  _

 

Evan blinks. Connor’s reaction to the school shooter chic thing earlier that morning makes more sense upon reading what Connor had written at two in the morning when he couldn’t sleep. It’s a very brief insight into Connor’s mind, and Evan doesn’t think he likes it. He doesn’t think he likes that last line and what it implies. Mortified and almost more curious now, he continues to read.

 

_ August 22nd, 2018, still, technically. _

_ Well, I was right, wasn’t I.  I usually am. People just don’t listen to me enough to realize it. From the fucking second I walked downstairs, they were on me about fucking everything. Cynthia tried, Cynthia always tries, but Larry doesn’t. Whatever, I don’t fucking care what Larry thinks. Family breakfast-- can it be called that if no one is eating?-- went as well as I could have expected, meaning there was only minimal yelling and everyone walked away without anything being broken, so I guess there’s that. (And hey, I was right about the fact that they wouldn’t mention whatever happened last night, because what are they without the perfect family facade.) It could have been wore. But then I got to school. _

_ Gotta say, expecting riding to school with Zoe to be the worst part of my day was way too fucking optimistic. Of course it just got worse. I’d actually trade everything that happened before lunch for a roadtrip with Zoe because at least she doesn’t say to my face how much of a psychopath I am, even if I know she thinks it all the time.  _

_ My teacher in homeroom snapped at me for having my phone out. Sabrina had her phone out, and so did four other people, but I guess it doesn’t matter if you’re on the football team or a straight A student, and I’m just the school fuck up. Which is something Jared Kleinman just had to remind me off, didn’t he? Because what even does he have to live for if he isn’t ruining my life? “School shooter chic”. He’d get along with my dad really well, wouldn’t he? _

_ I hate Jared. I didn’t think Evan Hansen would be the same way, and he’s probably not. He just has shitty friends. I should apologize for pushing him. It’ll probably backfire on me, yeah, but I don’t want him to think I hate him, or I’m going to kill him. Jared probably already has that thought in his head enough without me pushing him around. Besides, Evan’s probably the only person in this school who has any idea how I feel. _

 

That’s all that’s written, and Evan’s dizzy. He’d had no idea that Connor had thought that, had thought any of this. Now his letter is just a side note on a list of a thousand other things, but one thing stands out above all. He has to find Connor.


	2. Cause No One Understands

He finds Connor sitting against the base of an old oak tree behind the school. They still have one class left in the day, but it’s never been outside of Connor’s nature to skip, and, usually Evan’s anxiety wouldn’t allow him to skip, too, but today, he thinks he’d be worse off if he decided to go back to class. He still has the leather notebook clenched in the hand that isn’t in a cast, so hard that his fingers ache, and he’s holding it close to his body like he’s afraid it’s going to disappear. It’s probably the most about Connor that anyone in the school knows, and he isn’t even supposed to know it. 

Connor’s eyes are closed, and Evan may be mistaken because he’s not very close to him, but he thinks he sees tear tracks on Connor’s face, and his stomach clenches. It’s not his fault, but it’s kind of his fault, and, though his mind is screaming at him to turn and run because Connor is the human equivalent of a substance that will explode if handled wrong, he takes a step forward. There’s something disorienting about seeing Connor cry, even though it used to be a daily thing in school-- the sun came up, the school bells rang, and Connor Murphy ended up crying at some point or another. Like clockwork.

“Go away.” It’s Connor’s voice, as clear and familiar as it always has been, but like it’s been recorded and played back through some sort of audio distorter. It doesn’t sound right, sort of broken and strained and emotionless.

“Oh, I um, I have--” Evan begins, glancing down at the notebook still clutched in his hand, and then looking back up in time to see Connor’s eyes open. They’re red-rimmed and his face is blotchy, and it’s unmistakable now. Connor’s been crying, and at least a little of that is Evan’s fault. He dares to take a step closer, and then hesitates before sitting down cross-legged in front of the mysterious entity known as Connor Murphy. “Is this yours?” he mumbles, a faint echo of Connor in the computer lab, like he doesn’t already know the answer. He extends the notebook with a noticeably shaking arm.

Connor eyes it warily for a moment, like it’s a dangerous animal as opposed to an inanimate object. His eyes flicker to Evan’s face for a moment, and he snorts, derisive, though his face remains entirely expressionless. “Did you read it? Don’t lie,” he adds when Evan starts to speak. “More evidence that I’m just a fucking freak, right? Go on, tell the school, you have more than enough reason to think so now.”

“That wasn’t what the letter was,” Evan interrupts, his voice barely a squeak of breath. He sets the notebook down on the grass between them and pushes it with the tips of his fingers until it touches Connor’s leg. “It was, um, it was a therapy assignment. Write a letter to yourself, Dear Evan Hansen, today is going to be a good day and here’s why… It was supposed to help me think… positive or something.” 

Connor raises an eyebrow. There’s nothing judgemental in his expression, but Evan squirms in place, anyway. Connor’s gaze is keen and piercing, and it makes him feel even more nervous than he normally feels. And then Connor pulls a folded up piece of paper from the pocket of his jacket, and Evan recognizes it as his letter.

“Judging from what’s written on this piece of paper, it sure as hell didn’t help you think positive.” He flicks the paper towards Evan, where it hits his knee and then drops into the grass. Evan doesn’t move to pick it up, and Connor continues speaking. “‘I wish everything were different, I wish I were a part of something. Would anyone notice if I disappeared tomorrow?’ Is that the kind of positivity your therapist is trying to instill in you, because it feels a lot like the exact opposite.”

Evan tries not to think too much about what it means that Connor had actually read the entire letter, and not just the parts about Zoe, the parts he wishes he had deleted. In fact, he wishes he hadn’t written any of it at all; it doesn’t seem to have done any good. Voice trembling, he responds quietly, “‘Maybe this will finally be the year.’ What does that mean?” He knows what it means. It means the same thing he wrote at the end of his letter, the same thing that Connor just recited to him, and he also knows that neither of them is going to rush to admit it.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Connor replies shortly, closing his fingers over his notebook and hastening to shove it in his messenger bag alongside whatever else is in there already. “I’m sure you read it, but sorry I pushed you. And then sorry I snapped at you for the letter.”

“I laughed at Jared’s stupid joke about you, it’s okay that you pushed me. And I shouldn’t have written about Zoe, it was very creepy, you’re right. I didn’t think that you would see it, but I also didn’t write it because I wanted to make you look crazy, I’m not like that, that’s something Jared would do, not--” He becomes consciously aware that he is rambling, speaking too fast to really be understood, and at the same time, too quietly and without breathing.

“Jared’s an asshole,” Connor replies bluntly. Evan feels like he should maybe defend Jared; they are  _ family friends _ , after all. But he also agrees that Jared is, in fact, an asshole, so he doesn’t bother to say anything at all. Jared wouldn’t defend him, either. And then Connor stands up, hand clenched on the strap of his bag, and he always looks intimidating, but from the angle Evan has now, he looks even moreso. 

“Where are you going?” Evan asks in spite of himself as Connor starts to walk past him, twisting a little so he can keep Connor in his line of sight. Connor freezes, his body going rigid for a moment. 

“Why do you care?” is his response. No emotion in his voice. It’s not surprising, but the lack of emotion is almost scarier, because he can’t tell if Connor is mad at him or wants him to shut up or just vanish or something.

“Um.” Evan gets to his feet, brushing grass off of the legs of his khakis as best as he can with one arm basically unusable. It doesn’t matter, there’s not actually much of anything on his clothes, it’s just a nervous gesture, but he can’t help it. “Um, you wrote, in that, that I was probably the only person in this school who understood how you felt.”

“Yeah, I did. Don’t get it twisted, Hansen, we aren’t friends, and you may think you know me, but you don’t know shit. You read some bullshit I wrote when I couldn’t sleep, and when I got angry. It doesn’t mean you know who I am.”

He isn’t wrong. Just because Evan read some things written in a tattered  notebook that Connor had never bothered to use before two o'clock this morning doesn’t mean that he can suddenly read the stony expression on Connor’s face. Just because he saw the tears in the paper where Connor had pressed a little too hard with the pen doesn’t mean he understands what was happening in his mind at the time. They don’t know each other, and they aren’t friends, not because of any of that.

“Just because you read a letter I wrote for therapy after Jared was a jerk to me all day and you pushed me and I probably made Zoe think I’m a freak and my mom hung up on me doesn’t mean you know me, either!” Evan snaps back with a little more force than he had intended to. It had sort of spilled form his mouth without his permission, like water breaking through a dam that could no longer hold it back, and immediately, he starts to backtrack.

But Connor is smiling. Not a full on radiant smile full of happiness and joy, Evan doesn’t think that Connor is capable of that. But it’s a small quirk at the corner of his mouth, a shadow of something meant to be something more, a glimmer of feeling in eyes that usually hold nothing. Evan’s words die on his lips. He’d heard Connor laugh earlier, and he’s almost seeing him smile now, and he doesn’t know what it means.

“Wow, you actually can stand up for yourself,” Connor says, sounding just shy of amused. “Didn’t think that was actually possible.”

“No, I didn’t mean, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have--”

“Evan, shut up,” Connor interrupts, and Evan does. “I was impressed. Maybe stand up to Jared sometimes and he wouldn’t make you feel like shit all the time.”

“Jared is my… I mean, he’s my friend,” Evan tries. He let not defending Jared go last time, he should probably at least make some sort of attempt this time. Even if Connor might be right.

“A shitty example of one. Besides, it takes more effort to stand up to a friend than it does to stand up to the school freak you barely know.” 

Connor turns on his heel, boots pushing grass and dirt up from the ground, and starts to walk away. Evan fidgets, fingers toying with the fabric of his polo, eyes on the letter still on the ground by his foot, the stupid fucking letter that had been the catalyst for all of this. “I don’t think you’re the school freak,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. He really, really wishes his mind would keep up with and control his mouth sometimes, because, wow, he cannot believe he just said that.

Connor stops. He doesn’t turn, but he tilts his head a little, glancing back at where Evan is standing. “Cute,” he replies dryly. “And naive. I’m whatever they want me to be.” He motions to the school vaguely, and it’s only because Evan’s the same way that he notices the tremor in his fingers. “Truth be damned.”

Evan blinks, and frowns. Connor’s probably right; in fact, Evan knows that he is. Once people have it in their mind of who you are, there isn’t a lot you can do to change it. And people like Connor and Evan, they started out ten steps behind in a race where there’s no catching up, there’s no making things right. Maybe Connor was right, maybe Evan does know how he feels. Maybe that’s something.

“I do, um, I do know how you feel. You don’t have to be, um. You don’t have to be alone, you could… talk to me, if you wanted to, if it would…”

Connor laughs for the second time that day, quiet and strained. This time it’s a little more sarcastic, but somehow still genuine, and Evan trails off. “Later, Hansen,” he says, and then he’s walking away, and this time, Evan doesn’t attempt to stop him. He’s already said more than he should have said, and he isn’t sure it makes any difference in the end.

He picks up the folded up letter from the ground and slides it into his pocket alongside the Sharpie that’s still there. And then he slips back into the school, and walks back to the computer lab, quiet and unnoticed. He pulls up the document that he’d written his letter on, highlights the whole thing, and deletes it all. And then he starts to type, fingers shaking so badly that he almost can’t get the words out.

 

_ Dear Evan Hansen, _

_ Today is going to be a good day, and here’s why:  _

_ Because today, maybe there’s somebody that understands how you feel. Today, maybe you took the first step to making a friend? And maybe that’s not going to work out in the end, but for today, maybe that’s enough. _

 

_ Sincerely, _

_ Me. _


End file.
